Times change
by I'm Nova
Summary: John hated Janine. But the result of her latest text is happier than he would have ever expected.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing._

Times change

John would never figure out how Sherlock could remain friendly with the women whose hearts he'd supposedly broken in the past. Not that he hadn't been told over and over that there was no heartbreak because all people involved were perfectly aware of what was going on (and also, often, gay themselves). But it still didn't seem to compute.

The detective would just sigh, quietly enjoying that his blogger loved him enough to be suspicious and jealous of his non-exes. After all, he'd been in those shoes often enough, and without the certainty that John loved him at the time. Of course, he would continue texting Irene, or occasionally, Janine. There was no reason for his boyfriend's insecurities to ruin a fun rapport.

If he had, after all, he wouldn't have received the text that changed his life. "Janine's bored," he announced one morning, between stolen bites of his boyfriend's toast.

"I'm sure you can empathise, love," John replied, a small frown already forming. He'd never liked Janine. To be fair, he'd met her when his life was very confusing, and there were bigger troubles to worry about than discovering the woman's qualities.

"She's planning to move. America, maybe. She's sure she could succeed in Hollywood. After all, she says she's kind of an expert at playing a part," Sherlock said, pocketing his phone.

John groaned. Why should a perfectly fine morning be ruined by the memory of that woman's acting? He still remembered the nausea that had overtaken him seeing her saunter, smiling and half-naked, (and half dressed in the wrong clothes, which was so much worse) into the sitting room. "You're not going to help her rehearse," he ordered sternly.

"Of course, don't be an idiot, love, I'm hardly following her to Los Angeles. No, she's writing because she'll need a bit of money to cushion her stay, especially during the first period. So she's planning to sell her cottage, and she thought I might be interested," the sleuth replied, an eager glint in his eyes.

"Isn't that the cottage she bought with the money she got from selling the details of her torrid love affair with you?" his lover asked. Mary had bought absolutely every lurid paper that so much as hinted at the story. She used to read him some passages aloud, snickering, and expecting him to join in the joke. It had been painfully uncomfortable – like most of their relationship, to be honest – and nowadays, John was sure she'd done it on purpose.

"Exactly," Sherlock said, shrugging.

"She expects you to pay twice over for that? Bit greedy, isn't she?" his lover huffed.

"Well, she did have her feelings ruthlessly exploited. You seemed to think it was a bad thing, so I suppose she's entitled to compensation," the detective replied, with a half-smile.

"If she had feelings, sure. But I am doubting that these days. And notice I didn't say 'for you'," John quipped.

"Now, now, that's a bit harsh. Besides, we wouldn't be doing it for her," the sleuth admitted.

"Okay, love, tell me what's so special about this place," his blogger asked, whole body relaxing. This wasn't a 'need to be jealous' case. It was a 'need to listen to your boyfriend's latest mad plan' case.

"Bees, John!" was the unhelpful if enthusiastic reply.

"Bees…where? At the cottage?" the doctor echoed, frowning in puzzlement.

"Well, not anymore, because Janine had the outrageous idea of getting rid of them, but yes. There were beehives, which means that there could be again. Don't you always say that I need a hobby that won't explode on me? For the future, at least," Sherlock explained, getting up and starting to stride along the room. "Don't you remember what you were saying, no longer than two days ago?"

"Of course I do, and I stand by it," John countered. Actually, his love might need a reminder, because he'd obviously missed the point, so he repeated himself, "We have a child, we need a life where at least outside of cases the people at 999 don't hear from us so often that there's no need to tell them the address anymore." He got up too, and stood in the other's path, "Now, what part of this makes you think 'we need to consistently be in the path of painfully stinging, scream and maybe allergy inducing bugs?"

"Seriously, love, your ignorance on the matter is disgraceful!" his lover huffed, raising a scandalised eyebrow. "I thought you would have known better about such a fascinating subject. For one, bees are not bugs. Not in the proper sense of the word, and not in the 'this is an ugly, multi-legged pest of a critter' meaning most people use, because who would consider them pests? Besides, given that they die after stinging, they're much less inclined to do so than, say, wasps, and Rosie is too intelligent to try and disturb the beehive without proper protection after we explain it to her, and we will. Add that the dress code for actually touching the hives is absolutely fascinating, and you might have a hard time getting her out of the tailored version I plan to buy her."

"You plan to get Rosie a mini beekeeper suit," his blogger echoed, still incredulous, then sighed. "Well, better that than have her be your apprentice in the human body parts experiments endeavours. She can tell the teachers without anyone calling CPS on us."

"Don't be silly, John, CPS would never visit, no matter what hobby she prefers. Mycroft wouldn't let them. We might need Lestrade though, to have a talk with anyone idiotic enough to believe the study of anatomy should be reserved for a certain age," the detective retorted, shrugging. "So? Are we going to buy Janine out?"

"Do you actually mean for us all to move?" his lover asked. Such a thing couldn't be decided in a rush. At the very least, they should research the area, the infrastructures, the crime rate (to see if it was high enough to keep Sherlock entertained), and –

John's racing thoughts were interrupted by an eye roll so monumental he was pretty sure he could _hear_ it (and yes, he knew this was physically impossible). The sleuth plopped down on a chair, and huffed, "Of course not. Not right away, at least. London would devolve into a lawless dystopia if I abandoned Lestrade to his own devices. But holiday houses are a thing, you know."

His blogger couldn't do much more than nod. Sure, the idea was looking less insane with each passing second, though John would need a serious conversation with Mycroft to see exactly how far the funds of his favourite posh boy went, if they needed to take a loan, and get into a discussion about rates and all the contingencies one normally considered when planning to buy a house.

It would be completely useless to interrogate Sherlock on such matters, given that he was already raving, "We need to reinstall the beehives as soon as possible, you know. Seven species of bees are already on the endangered species' list. Sure, they are Hawaiian ones, but with the widespread pollution these days, even ours need all the help they can get. Did you know that in some areas of China people already resort to pollinating by hand? If a bee apocalypse falls on us, I'm not sure how much fruit for your jam you'll find anymore."

John laughed. "Ouch, love, that's a low blow. Okay, fine, we're going to become beekeepers in our spare time. I hope you'll find someone experienced in Sussex to check on our hives while we're in London. I mean, I have no idea what that would entail, it's not like a dog that you need to feed and walk, but I'm assuming you need to help them somehow besides taking the honey every now and then? Otherwise why would they even bother to live near us at all?"

At that, Sherlock got up and, without a word, started rummaging on their bookshelves, before bringing two heavy tomes he'd never noticed back to him, declaring, "You can start reading these. You'll know everything you need not to make too big a fool of yourself."

The books were obviously old, and thumbing through it, John could see many notes on the pages, both in Sherlock's scrawl and in another calligraphy. He smiled at the obvious passion these books had fed. His beloved always surprised him. "Thank you," he said, "I just hope you won't quiz me about it. I'm all for letting you be in charge of the bees."

The detective's answering smile was brighter than the sun. That alone was worth all the future stings and possible mortgage.

As always when Sherlock concocted a plan, the results came quickly. Less than a month later, they were in Sussex, overseeing the installation of the beehives (and ensuring the neighbours' help, because you couldn't foresee every need of the hive, not even if you were a consulting detective). The cottage was lovely, with a big garden, which both the bees and Rosie were going to love.

John was happy to have left her in Mrs. Hudson's care for the day, though, because there was still a bit of childproofing the house needed, and she needed some more lessons in proper bee handling before her dad would feel comfortable having her around them. Besides, one overenthusiastic toddler is more than enough.

The detective was still outside, bonding with his bees – and leaving over-detailed instructions with the neighbours, who had been tending to their own hives for at least four decades, if John had to hazard a guess – thankfully in the proper attire. His blogger decided to go inside. They would need some smoothing of ruffled feathers very soon, if he knew his beloved, so he might as well start some tea.

Alone in the kitchen, he started opening cupboards and getting a feel for the room while the water heated. He didn't want to admit it – he was more than prepared to hate the cottage, simply because Janine had lived here – but he loved this place. Mostly because there was surprisingly little evidence that she stayed here. He would have expected someone like her to put her imprint on everything, from the shade of the walls to an abundance of doilies, but she had either modified precious little from when the cottage had been built, or she had a restorer's soul.

Okay, not so much a restorer – touching the back of the inside of a cupboard, he felt it tilting under his hand. Checking it, he discovered a secret compartment – he was tempted to shout out his discovery, but decided against it. He could investigate himself, and then present Sherlock with something the genius hadn't noticed, for once. Besides, if it was just empty, or worse, the result of a botched attempt at repairing, the less he showed his excitement the better.

Inside the false bottom there were two objects: a small jar, and a notebook. Judging by the amount of dust, and the yellowing of the pages, both had been there for a long time. This was a true treasure! And more amazing still was that the calligraphy on the notebook looked similar to the one he didn't know on Sherlock's book. Was it even possible? Did Sherlock know, and was that why he was so eager to buy the cottage? Or had he completely mistaken one scrawl for another?

The tea's whistle brought him back to the present – he quickly stuffed both things back into their hiding spot, and put the teabags in. Just like he expected, not long after Sherlock and his neighbour came inside, yelling at each other. The blogger distracted by his discovery, accidentally called the neighbour the wrong name, which didn't help. But fixing cups of tea, offering the biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had baked for them, and apologising profusely eventually soothed the man's ruffled feathers.

As for his love, he'd become strangely non confrontational after John's blunder. As soon as the other man, finally mollified, was on his way, Sherlock asked, eyes sparkling, "So? What did you find, love?"

Of course the world's only consulting detective deduced the reason for his partner's mistake. John showed him his findings with a flourish and a boyish grin. Sherlock started reading aloud, delighted at finding it a discussion on bees, but frowning at the contents. It warned harshly against the risk of isolation starvation – in winter, if the queen had been left to her own devices, it was possible that the tight cluster of her bees, huddling together for heat, would be too far from honey-filled cells to feed and survive, all the close ones having contained eggs and then, larvae of future bees. The solution? Segregating the queen, so that she couldn't occupy more than a few cells with her eggs. It was a sacrifice for the bee, certainly. But one necessary for the hive to survive.

"Or," John retorted, interrupting the reading, "you could keep the bloody hive warmer. Okay, I'm being unfair, I don't suppose they had the chance back then, but – a good insulating material, maybe? To start with? We could also move the hives inside a greenhouse of some sort during the winter. I'm sure we can get permits."

"Brilliant!" Sherlock replied, kissing him just because he could. "Anyway, we have a jar of the previous owner's honey – he apparently left it to the future to prove that the sacrifice was worth it. We can eat it, too – honey basically never goes bad – and we'll see if our own will be sweeter after all."

His lover giggled. "Perfect, love. Anyway, is it just me or does the writing look familiar?"

"You're right, it's definitely the same as my book's. Before you ask, though, I have no idea who it was – I found it in my family's library when I was a child, and loved it since. It doesn't mean we can't prove him wrong, though!"

"Of course not! I look forward to some delicious experiments," John replied, licking his lips. He would enjoy this place very much indeed.


End file.
